


A Game of Tag

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Community: ante_up_losers, Gen, Girl Saves Boy, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's been captured, and they keep asking for answers that he doesn't have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game of Tag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el_spirito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Игра в салки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592509) by [Heidel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidel/pseuds/Heidel)



> Thanks to R for the beta.

The thud is wet, and Jensen's almost one-hundred percent certain that something in his jaw has collapsed as the guy's knuckles skid slick on his skin.

There are approximately 206 bones in the human body, he thinks wildly. Never start with the face. _Especially_ if you want answers. None of which Jensen actually _has_ —

He grunts when the next punch hits his gut, sends him tipping backward onto hard concrete. He could sleep here, he thinks. Get comfortable.

"Mint on my pillow," he gurgles when they start shouting at him again.

~*~

A concussion jars the brain inside the skull, so it stands to reason that a knockout is an explosion inside his head, too much for his brain to process all at once so it has to shut down and take a breather. Hard reboot.

Jensen can't remember where he is. All he knows is that it _fucking hurts_ , and he'd like for it to stop now, please. He'll even beg for the cherries on top even though he hates cherries. They keep asking him questions, a long string that he can't keep up with, and when he can't keep pace, something else breaks, drags up thick in his throat until he's wracked by a cough, choking on his own spit and blood.

It's too much to swallow, so he spits, and it just happens to land on the guy's face.

"Was an accident," Jensen tries to say, and whether it really was doesn't matter 'cause he's out for the count again. One, two, three. The champ is done.

~*~

He doesn't have his glasses. Pretty sure he lost those days back, and his already impaired vision is further compromised by the fact that he can't open his left eye. It's his semi-good eye, too. Everything he can see through the right is hazy, washed out and tinged red.

"Jensen."

Don't know anything, he tries to say, but knows he doesn't succeed, because when he wakes up again, some thin-framed woman is hauling him out of the chair. Jensen would consider this a perfect opportunity to say hello, ask for a name, but the blood's circulating back into his legs and it's amazing how much worse that hurts than his face

"Clay."

Jensen knows that name, holds on to that instead of the pins and needles stabbing him with each step that he tries to take.

"I found something you lost."

~*~

While he's drifting in a fog, he remembers the woman's face. Then his own is getting slapped hard.

"Stay awake," Aisha says.

It's been a long time. Not the staying awake part but the seeing Aisha part. How did she even—

Another slap jars Jensen out of it.

"I'm serious," she says.

But the rest of her words turn fuzzy again.

~*~

Jensen thinks he should be embarrassed when she starts stripping him out of his clothes, all sharp, jerky, efficient movements that hurt, and he really wished she'd stop and let him handle this. He takes back that thought when he realizes he can barely hold himself upright in the shower.

"Stop trying to talk," Aisha says, and helps him sit safely in the tub.

She washes him clean, and he has to shut his eyes again. She won't let him, though, and slaps his cheek, and he swears — or tries to — that he's awake, _please stop_.

Except he's not, 'cause he wakes up and doesn't remember the trip from the bathroom to the bedroom. That's supposed to be significant, he thinks, but his brain is still too foggy to process anything but bed, warm, and mint.

He gets cold water instead, ice running slick across his lips. It feels good in his mouth, and he flicks a glance up at Aisha's face, tries to jokingly say, "I love you."

All that comes out is a gurgle of consonants.

~*~

"It's going to be a few days before they get here," she says, and then somewhere in the drift of Jensen's thoughts, "Don't say anything."

He couldn't if he tried. Even his thumbs up fails, hands flopping uselessly on the bed before he's wheeled away.

~*~

Jensen licks his lips, croaks out, "Aisha," before he even opens his eyes.

The snort is a clue that it's probably not her. "She's gone." Pooch, then. "How are you feeling?"

Jensen opens his eyes and says, "Thirsty," because 'like shit' is pretty obvious by the state of him sprawled out.

Clay's there with a plastic cup and straw, a grave expression, and a good go at a grin. Jensen accepts the straw, and it's like water in the desert. He knows better, but he drinks too much, too fast and sputters. A combination of Pooch and Clay helping him sit up keeps him from choking.

"I'm in a hospital," he says dumbly, because there's no mistaking the crisp white sheets, and then he looks up and around and spots Cougar standing watch at the door. Seems like a hospital would blow their cover.

"Said she was busy."

Jensen turns to Clay but doesn't need him to verbalize the subject of that sentence. Aisha.

"How'd she … " He trails off. They all look at each other with that same understanding of, _It's Aisha_. 'Nough said. After a while, he says, "Probably safer."

Pooch nods and squeezes his shoulder. "Don't hack into your medical record."

~*~

The day Jensen takes heed is not today. That day exists in a very distant, nondescript future in which Jessica's attending an excellent college and Max is six feet under and there's world peace. Gotta have the world peace.

He stares at the screen and shakes his head. Aisha checked him in under a pseudonym, but with Jensen's injuries, it wasn't hard to figure out who the John Doe was.

'Like shit' didn't even begin to cover what they'd done to him. Jensen sighs.

A day in the life of a Loser.

~*~

They find her again in Zielona Góra. Or she finds them. It's never easy to tell.

She's in their safehouse, boots propped up on the desk, and says, "Brought you a gift."

Jensen doesn't expect her to toss it at him, so he fumbles it and has to snatch it off the floor with a face-saving. "Uhhh."

He shakes the package, hoping like hell it's not a set of ears. He never can tell when she's joking sometimes, but it doesn't sound like there are any squishy human body parts, so he tears it open and pulls out the drives nestled safe in bubble wrap.

"Enjoy," she says, walking past him, and Jensen stares after her, wondering if he'd imagined her fingers squeezing his elbow.

Everyone's staring at Jensen, so maybe he hadn't imagined it. He shrugs. "Let's see what Mrs. Claus brought us."

It's a news clip of an explosion, and the longer Jensen stares, the more he recognizes that building. Or at least, he recognizes the guy peeking through one of the windows before an RPG takes out half of it. He wonders when she'd done it — as he was propped in the car trying to stay awake or after she'd dropped him off at the hospital.

He leans back in his chair and laughs as he rakes his fingers through his hair.

"Aisha, man." Pooch shakes his own head and steps away. "What a gift."

Jensen nods as he looks through the rest of the drive, finding more goodies, mostly intel on some of Max's movements and ops.

"Glad we've been staying on her good side," he says, and when everyone's left and it's up to Jensen to parse coordinates and locations, he watches the clip again.

It's Aisha, he thinks. And she's a million times better than a guardian angel.


End file.
